A Mother Page #3

"A Mother" is a short story, not a book, by James Joyce that appears in his collection called "Dubliners". The story revolves around Mrs. Kearney, a socially ambitious mother who aims to give her daughter a career in music in an attempt to boost her family's social standing. However, her drive and reputation create conflicts, eventually leading to her own downfall. This story underlines the societal expectations, moral values and social justice of 20th-century Irish society.

• Children

								

startled gaze. The shadow took her faded dress into shelter but fell
revengefully into the little cup behind her collar-bone. The noise of
the hall became more audible. The first tenor and the baritone arrived
together. They were both well dressed, stout and complacent and they
brought a breath of opulence among the company.

Mrs Kearney brought her daughter over to them, and talked to them
amiably. She wanted to be on good terms with them but, while she strove
to be polite, her eyes followed Mr Holohan in his limping and devious
courses. As soon as she could she excused herself and went out after
him.

“Mr Holohan, I want to speak to you for a moment,” she said.

They went down to a discreet part of the corridor. Mrs Kearney asked
him when was her daughter going to be paid. Mr Holohan said that Mr
Fitzpatrick had charge of that. Mrs Kearney said that she didn’t know
anything about Mr Fitzpatrick. Her daughter had signed a contract for
eight guineas and she would have to be paid. Mr Holohan said that it
wasn’t his business.

“Why isn’t it your business?” asked Mrs Kearney. “Didn’t you yourself
bring her the contract? Anyway, if it’s not your business it’s my
business and I mean to see to it.”

“You’d better speak to Mr Fitzpatrick,” said Mr Holohan distantly.

“I don’t know anything about Mr Fitzpatrick,” repeated Mrs Kearney. “I
have my contract, and I intend to see that it is carried out.”

When she came back to the dressing-room her cheeks were slightly
suffused. The room was lively. Two men in outdoor dress had taken
possession of the fireplace and were chatting familiarly with Miss
Healy and the baritone. They were the Freeman man and Mr O’Madden
Burke. The Freeman man had come in to say that he could not wait for
the concert as he had to report the lecture which an American priest
was giving in the Mansion House. He said they were to leave the report
for him at the Freeman office and he would see that it went in. He
was a grey-haired man, with a plausible voice and careful manners. He
held an extinguished cigar in his hand and the aroma of cigar smoke
floated near him. He had not intended to stay a moment because concerts
and artistes bored him considerably but he remained leaning against
the mantelpiece. Miss Healy stood in front of him, talking and
laughing. He was old enough to suspect one reason for her politeness
but young enough in spirit to turn the moment to account. The warmth,
fragrance and colour of her body appealed to his senses. He was
pleasantly conscious that the bosom which he saw rise and fall slowly
beneath him rose and fell at that moment for him, that the laughter and
fragrance and wilful glances were his tribute. When he could stay no
longer he took leave of her regretfully.

“O’Madden Burke will write the notice,” he explained to Mr Holohan,
“and I’ll see it in.”

“Thank you very much, Mr Hendrick,” said Mr Holohan, “you’ll see it in,
I know. Now, won’t you have a little something before you go?”

“I don’t mind,” said Mr Hendrick.

The two men went along some tortuous passages and up a dark staircase
and came to a secluded room where one of the stewards was uncorking
bottles for a few gentlemen. One of these gentlemen was Mr O’Madden
Burke, who had found out the room by instinct. He was a suave, elderly
man who balanced his imposing body, when at rest, upon a large silk
umbrella. His magniloquent western name was the moral umbrella upon
which he balanced the fine problem of his finances. He was widely
respected.

While Mr Holohan was entertaining the Freeman man Mrs Kearney was
speaking so animatedly to her husband that he had to ask her to lower
her voice. The conversation of the others in the dressing-room had
become strained. Mr Bell, the first item, stood ready with his music
but the accompanist made no sign. Evidently something was wrong. Mr
Kearney looked straight before him, stroking his beard, while Mrs
Kearney spoke into Kathleen’s ear with subdued emphasis. From the hall
came sounds of encouragement, clapping and stamping of feet. The first
tenor and the baritone and Miss Healy stood together, waiting
tranquilly, but Mr Bell’s nerves were greatly agitated because he was
afraid the audience would think that he had come late.

Mr Holohan and Mr O’Madden Burke came into the room. In a moment Mr
Holohan perceived the hush. He went over to Mrs Kearney and spoke with
her earnestly. While they were speaking the noise in the hall grew
louder. Mr Holohan became very red and excited. He spoke volubly, but
Mrs Kearney said curtly at intervals:

“She won’t go on. She must get her eight guineas.”

Mr Holohan pointed desperately towards the hall where the audience was
clapping and stamping. He appealed to Mr Kearney and to Kathleen. But
Mr Kearney continued to stroke his beard and Kathleen looked down,
moving the point of her new shoe: it was not her fault. Mrs Kearney
repeated:

“She won’t go on without her money.”

After a swift struggle of tongues Mr Holohan hobbled out in haste. The
room was silent. When the strain of the silence had become somewhat
painful Miss Healy said to the baritone:

“Have you seen Mrs Pat Campbell this week?”

The baritone had not seen her but he had been told that she was very
fine. The conversation went no further. The first tenor bent his head
and began to count the links of the gold chain which was extended
across his waist, smiling and humming random notes to observe the
effect on the frontal sinus. From time to time everyone glanced at Mrs
Kearney.

The noise in the auditorium had risen to a clamour when Mr Fitzpatrick
burst into the room, followed by Mr Holohan, who was panting. The
clapping and stamping in the hall were punctuated by whistling. Mr
Fitzpatrick held a few banknotes in his hand. He counted out four into
Mrs Kearney’s hand and said she would get the other half at the
interval. Mrs Kearney said:

“This is four shillings short.”

But Kathleen gathered in her skirt and said: “Now, Mr Bell,” to the
first item, who was shaking like an aspen. The singer and the
accompanist went out together. The noise in hall died away. There was a
pause of a few seconds: and then the piano was heard.

The first part of the concert was very successful except for Madam
Glynn’s item. The poor lady sang Killarney in a bodiless gasping
voice, with all the old-fashioned mannerisms of intonation and
pronunciation which she believed lent elegance to her singing. She
looked as if she had been resurrected from an old stage-wardrobe and
the cheaper parts of the hall made fun of her high wailing notes. The
first tenor and the contralto, however, brought down the house.
Kathleen played a selection of Irish airs which was generously
applauded. The first part closed with a stirring patriotic recitation
delivered by a young lady who arranged amateur theatricals. It was
deservedly applauded; and, when it was ended, the men went out for the
interval, content.

All this time the dressing-room was a hive of excitement. In one corner
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